


if you love me

by vlasdygoth



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlasdygoth/pseuds/vlasdygoth
Summary: [you don't love me in a way i understand]





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Wishbone by Richard Siken. http://www.colorado.edu/journals/standards/V7N1/MMM/siken.html

It's in the quiet moments when you think about it.

_You saved my life, you say._

The brief silence after an explosion.

_I owe you everything._

The two am smokes out the window of a motel.

_I owe you._

The afterglow.

You don't say it. You never have and never will.

That won't stop you from wondering. Wondering if Kepler knows. If he feels. If he wants.

You cherish these silent moments, fleeting though they are. Moments of tenderness. Tender like a bruise.

x

He rambles to fill the the silence, his stories nonsensical and outlandish. You pretend to listen.

Three years down the line you accepted that silence is now to be accompanied by the words from his mouth, twisted by his intonation and stretched by his drawl. They have a natural cadence to them that falls into the background with the constant ringing in your ears.

You want to kiss him to shut him up.

The moment it ceases fear spikes through your core, but he’s behind you, fingers clutching your shirt, ready to pull you back from the carnage. The building crumbles, and he tugs.

You fall back into him. You fall all the way back to the safehouse. By the time you finish falling your legs are shaking from the adrenaline and the memory and the sex.

You sleep for a while, fading in and out while Kepler breathes next to you.

Back to back. You trust this man with your life. He’s never indicated the same.

But then again, you haven’t had the chance to drag him out of hell yet.

  
x

  
The smoke burns your lungs. You've had worse.

You suck in a breath when he comes up behind you, slides his hands up your ribs and presses into your hips, a soft order for you to flick the butt of the cigarette down three stories and come join him. You ignore him. You stub the cig out on the windowsill and light up a new one immediately after.

He doesn’t leave. Plucks the new cigarette from your lips and takes a drag instead. Gives it back, kisses down your neck. Stays there for a while, pressed against you, insistent, hands looped around your waist.

You blaze through two more, and that's the end of the pack. You stay a while longer, waiting for him to move. He doesn’t.

His warmth at your back starts to burn like thermite up your spine.

You press up into him, let him envelop you in his embrace.

You want him to fuck you until you cry. Maybe this time it’ll get rid of the sentimentality.

 

x

 

His hand settles on your thigh, kicked up over his hips.

Face to face. Your eyes don’t make contact; too busy tracing over his lips, his nose, the outline of his ear, his scars.

You gave him the pale lines marking the left side of his face. One pierces through the dark circle under his brown eye. Three more stretch across his cheekbone, four in the shadow of his jaw, one across his lip. A pockmark above his eyebrow. All of them burst out in the same direction.

Neither of you have made the mistake of not trusting the other’s judgement since.

You shift, close your eyes. Wrap your arms tighter around his torso in apology.

Sometimes you wish you would let him scar you in return. You would let him carve his name into your heart like he owns it if he wanted to, but the marks he leaves on you always fade.

You whisper his name. He starts rubbing circles onto your thigh with his thumb. Kisses your forehead.

You flinch. He would just as soon fuck you as kick you out and roll over. Sometimes one right after the other.

He grips you tighter.

There is a part of you that wants him to tear you to pieces with those hands. There is a part of you that wants to shove a chunk of c4 down his throat.

If you press into him hard enough, you think you might be able to do both at once.

**Author's Note:**

> ah yes my specialty: 700 ish word, second person pov, vaguely poetic introspective character/relationship studies. i don't think this makes sense, but does it really have to


End file.
